Atonement
by Les Mots de Meaux
Summary: During his last days, Jean Valjean makes a visit to an old adversary.


A/N: This is my first fanfiction, though I have read many fanfictions of other authors. Please do review, for any help/criticism is much desired!

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables by Victor Hugo or any of the characters in this fanfiction. This is simply for the enjoyment of others.

The cemetery was silent. There was snow on the ground, upon the treetops, blanketing the few gravestones. The stark white created a mood of pristine innocence, yet most buried here were not of the innocent. This was, after all, a peasant's cemetery. Most graves did not even have gravestones. Fewer still had visitors.

There was only one visitor at the cemetery today. He was an old man, with white hair. When he was young, he had been quite muscular, but old age had stripped some of this strength from his bones. Now, he was thin and his skin was pale, but he was neither weak nor fragile. His face was lined with all the tragedies of the world, and his eyes glinted with the hope of a new day.

His gait was slow as he moved through the sprawling cemetery. Every now and then, he paused to glance at another beggar's resting place. He read each of the few gravestones present, searching for the words that would grant him peace and atonement. The words that would present to him the only man he ever feared.

When he had first read the obituary in the day's newspaper, he had not felt anything. His eyes had not closed with sadness, his heart had not leaped with joy, and his bones had not ached with misery. He simply read the words, taking them into himself, and continued consuming his meager breakfast of bread and milk. The next day, though, all of the emotions he had not felt prior convened upon his shoulders.

He was reading a novel, one of those Romantic pleas for attention and an audience, when it struck him. His chaser was gone. The hunt, at long last, was behind him. No more lies, no more running from the inevitable truth that is so-called justice. The hardships were finally over; his life could begin in peace again. The joy consumed him.

However, like all good things, the happiness faded to be replaced with a sense of misery. He thought of the man himself, not just the morals he believed in. The man had been his companion of sorts, if one could dare to call the two adversaries such. The two had lived for each other, feared each other for the past decade or more. If that did not constitute companionship, he had no idea what could.

The other man, his hunter, had been firm with himself and others. He had seemed free from want, except the wish to enable justice and law for all inhabitants of the fair state of France. No emotions giving clues to his inner workings graced his dark face. He had been tall and seemingly permanently upright; his arms were always crossed across his chest except in combat. His hair, long, dark, and wild, had been pulled fast with a ribbon at the nape of his neck. Upon his head was always a hat of black velvet with a matching black silk ribbon above the brim. Rarely had he been seen without this, his trusted friend. Rain or shine, he had always worn a black greatcoat that soon became a definition of his very being. Such were the makings of the man under the earth in front of the snowy-haired man.

The man kneeled in front of the gravestone, snow crunching under his boots. Slowly, he removed a violet velvet glove from his right hand and tentatively reached for the stone. He brushed the snow from its surface, at once baring it for himself and the sky to see.

A smile crossed his pale face as he thought of what the dark man would think of this graveside visit. Surely he would grimace, head tilted but not bowed, trying to puzzle out the real reason of the man's appearance.

Perhaps he himself did not know.

Perhaps, he thought, some things are better left as they are. So he was visiting the grave of the only man to make him run. So most would declare him insane for such a peculiar article of behavior.

Perhaps some things do not need reasons. They just are.

He wondered for a moment if the dark man had had a family. Surely there was someone on this unforgiving earth that would mourn his departure. However, he knew how improbable it was that he had married, given his belief that romance was nothing but a simple frivolity. Therefore, he could assume that no children had been born by the man.

Ancestors, though, were a different matter. As much as the man had shunned such an idea, even he had had parents. Even he had been loved and looked after in a point of his life.

The white-haired man breathed in deeply, inhaling the frigid, peaceful air of the cemetery. He had once feared cemeteries, with their unbending truths and scarcely-concealed lies. Their darkness frightened him, and once he had feared that it would suck him in and never let go. Of course, he had been a boy then, with loving parents who would chase the nightmares and fears from his dreams. His sister, too, had loved him.

What if he had been in the dark man's place of the world? What if he had become an inspector, forced to chase truants in pursuit of an ideal utopian earth that he knew would never exist? Such a fate would surely have destroyed him.

But he also knew that the other man had been more stalwart, more sure in his being. He only did what the law told him was right. Even his death, in a sense, had perhaps saved another man from the fate that is prison. Taking his own life prevented another from taking it himself.

The snowy-haired man contemplated on this fact, considering the possible, unwanted outcomes. If he had acted upon his feelings in nights of despair and searched for his adversary, surely different events would have unfolded. Yes, he knew, deep down, that he could have killed the inspector should he wished to. But he also knew he never would. And now, the cruel monster that is fate had taken that choice forever from him.

Bliss is not always in making the right choice. Sometimes, bliss is in making the decision to take no choice.

He turned his eyes to the bright sky above, staring at the birds flocking above. He stood, casting a final glance to the stone. "I am going now, forever," he murmured, sliding his glove back upon his hand. "I am old, and tired. I wish to join the stars, the birds, and the clouds. Is that where you are?" He knew that the church would say otherwise, but he believed the inspector had a place safely above. He also knew this was crazy, speaking to a gravestone, but he was old and so pardoned from interrogation as to his sanity. One never expects the elderly to be perfectly sure of themselves or their actions. "Perhaps, inspector, we shall meet again when we are once more united. And perhaps, we will meet in a place where there are no predators, no prey, and no justice of man."

And with that, he turned from the gravestone, tears beginning to fleck his eyes. The tears were not of mourning; they were of the joy of a new beginning.

He walked from the cemetery, at peace with himself, atonement finally obtained.


End file.
